


Fic: Hopes and Dreams and Schemes

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I swore I wasn't going to do any more challenges until the lovely <span><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/stageira/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/stageira/"><b>stageira</b></a></span> started knocking back and forth ideas. So yeah. I had plans beyond the "adapt the film" shtick that involved different places but I very quickly ran into a huge problem that a) I'd like to write about places I'd some experience of and b) I wasn't going to make them randomly British. So, huzzah, for <span><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/dc_everafter/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/dc_everafter/"><b>dc_everafter</b></a></span>, the Jensen/Misha version of National Treasure. Title from "Let's Start A Band" by Amy McDonald and, yes, it's NC-17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: Hopes and Dreams and Schemes

  


  
  
There were some mornings when Jensen couldn’t believe how lucky he was. As he exited the Metro, the crisp green lawn in front of him stretched out towards the sun tipped Capitol building. Living surrounded by monuments and buildings that lay at the heart of every notion of American patriotism should have made him immune to the way his heart gave a little thrill as he looked at the sight in front of him. He knew, however, that he was still an ordinary boy from Texas who couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

The guard in front of the staff entrance threw him a wave that was halfway to a salute as he swiped his card at the staff entrance. It was too early for the tourist hordes to be out in force, though a few hardy souls were already pointing cameras at the vista, at the Washington Monument, at Lincoln beyond. The air was still cold but the bright sun suggested that by afternoon, the Mall would be warm. He might walk home tonight. The Archives were quiet, even at the busiest times, when school group after school group came to witness the documents that marked the birth and preservation of the nation. There was an expectant hush in the air, reverence. It was especially quiet behind the scenes, but that was mainly because Jensen liked to get an early start.

Half past six kind of an early start. The amount of coffee it took to get him going when the alarm went off was a little insane but it was worth it for the two hours of uninterrupted time before his co-workers arrived with their emails and questions and meetings.

Jensen settled his glasses firmly on his nose, went to the safe in his office and tapped in the code. He retrieved a fresh pair of cotton gloves from the box on his desk (where others might have a box of tissues) and lifted the cracked leather document case from where it had been carefully laid the night before. Jensen brought the case to lie on the soft cushioned pad on his own desk and used the support to open it. Inside, the papers lay as disorganised as when they’d been hurriedly shoved inside before being stuck under the floorboards of the house where they’d been found. They must have been crisp then, probably not quite white but definitely not the yellowed fragile relics they had turned into. Amazing what a hundred, two hundred years could do. Jensen pulled the desk lamp over and started his careful work of removing and scanning and reading.

It was only when the door to his office was opened and the noise from the outer room broke his concentration that Jensen realised how the time had flown. He leaned back and stretched up, feeling his shoulders and upper back protest. He’d been deciphering what looked like a letter from a lawyer in Boston about land rights. It would need more research and he’d covered what looked like half a legal pad with notes and queries in his tight cramped handwriting. But before his attention could be captured, the assistant, Alona, coughed.

“Dr Ackles? You’ve got a meeting at half nine?” She looked apologetic. Jensen snuck a look at the clock. He had ten minutes.

“Just let me get tidied up here.” Then he thought about it. “Alona, who’s the meeting with?”

“M. Collins. That’s what’s scribbled here.” Alona held up the diary where they were supposed to record all the staff incomings and outgoings. Jensen scrubbed his hand through his hair before remembering he was wearing gloves.

He peeled them off and dumped them on the desk, drawing a new pair from the box to lift the case into the safe again. He tossed this pair in the garbage before smiling at Alona, who always smiled back. “Maybe some coffee?”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’, Doc,” she joked, retreating towards the tiny kitchenette at the far end of the offices while Jensen headed to the restroom to get his hair into some sort of order.

  
He was back behind his desk, suit jacket in place and tie neatly knotted, when there was another knock at his door. He looked up from his emails to see Alona with two men. One was tall, really tall, and the other was looking at him very directly. Jensen stood up. “M. Collins, I presume?”

The other man, dark hair to go along with the staring, came forward, offering his hand. “I’m Mr Collins.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Is it okay for Jared to wait out there? He’s my assistant.”

Alona came in with a tray with two mugs of coffee. From the look she gave Jared as she passed, it was obvious she didn’t mind being left with him in the outer office. She closed the door behind herself, but not before nodding enthusiastically at Jensen.

Jensen grabbed one of the mugs and let out what was, no doubt, an indecent sigh as he swallowed a mouthful. “What can I do for you?”

Mr Collins’ mouth quirked up a little and Jensen felt a slide of heat down his spine that was not entirely equatable to the heat of the coffee. If Jensen was not much mistaken, Mr Collins was gearing up to flirt with him. The notion – welcome or otherwise – was very quickly displaced when Mr Collins fixed Jensen with his clear blue gaze again.

“I need you to help me look at the Declaration of Independence. Or steal it. I’m not that fussy.” Mr Collins didn’t sound like a crazy person, and he didn’t look like a crazy person for all that his hair was rumpled just like he’d run his fingers through it to tame it, just like Jensen liked.

Jensen didn’t quite have an answer to that ridiculous statement and sat back in his chair and stared at Mr Collins. Mr M Collins. A horrible suspicion formed in his mind. “Mr Misha Collins?”

The guy – Misha fucking Collins – nodded and stood up to examine the framed documents that Jensen had placed on the walls. “Dr, actually. And you’re Dr Jensen Ackles, Assistant Archivist at the National Archives. And just the person to let me see the Declaration.”

“You can see the Declaration in the Archives. Just join the end of the queue.” Jensen rubbed his hand over his mouth. Misha Collins. The man was known in academic circles for his silly, ridiculous, untoward ideas about the very birth of the Union.

“I can’t do that. They don’t let me in and, anyway, I need to see the back of it.” Collins was perfectly serious when he turned around. “There’s a map on the back.”

“All right,” Jensen drew out, surprise making his drawl rise to the surface. “I’m going to guess you didn’t think I was going to actually let you look at it, Mr Collins.”

Collins shrugged. He held out his hand for Jensen to shake, but this time he held on a little too long. “Can’t blame me for trying.” Jensen tugged at his hand but Collins held it firm. “And I did get to meet you, Dr Jensen Ackles.”

Jensen finally managed to pull his hand free. He shoved his glasses up his nose and glared at Collins. “You should probably go.”

Collins got to his feet, face falling a little. “Yeah. And, you know, call me Misha. Thanks for your time”

Jensen came around his desk to open the door and gesture Misha out. He could see Alona twirling her hair around her fingers as Jared perched on the edge of her desk and waved his arms wildly. Jensen watched as he followed Misha towards to elevators. Misha turned back as they stood waiting and raised his hand. Jensen wasn’t sure if it was in farewell or a promise that they’d see each other again.

  
On the other hand, he’d forgotten about the party. There had been a big donation from a private individual and, apparently, that meant an evening of celebrating the work of the Archives. Or getting gussied up and seeking even more donations from private donors. Jensen knew he had to attend these things – management expected it – but he always rather resented the begging implications. When Alona reminded him, he groaned but closed up the files he’d been working on and grabbed his coat. So much for the walk home.

“You coming later?” Alona looked glum as he locked his office door behind him.

“I don’t get invited to these things. And I don’t have anything to wear. You go get ‘em, boss.” She held up her thumbs and looked more cheerful. “And if you see the delicious Mr Collins…”

Jensen ducked his head. He had thought Misha Collins was hot, before he’d found out who he was. “I doubt he’ll be there. He’s not exactly the Archives’ favourite person.”

“Another loony?” Alona asked, a little taken aback. “He looked so normal. And nice.”

Jensen let out a dry chuckle. “Try King of the Lunatic Conspiracy Fringe. It’s okay.” He waved and headed towards the bank of elevators again.

His tux was still in the wrapper from the dry cleaners from the last time. He dressed quickly but he felt pretty good when he checked himself in the mirror. He may be single and only hit on by lobbyists who wanted to see unreleased government memos but he could wear a tux. He wavered between his glasses and his contacts and went for the contacts, although he slipped his glasses into a slim case and into his inside pocket. There was always half a chance he might meet someone. Jensen knew he was actively looking.

His last relationship had been a rebound for the relationship before that. The relationship that had him thinking about calling adoption agencies and moving to Boston. Harvard had a decent library and special collections department. But things fell apart. Things always fall apart. But things fall apart a hell of a lot faster when you walk in on your boyfriend sucking off his ex-college boyfriend on the couch. So yeah, Jensen was looking.

He took a cab back to the Archives and was ignored by the bored looking camera crew outside as he flashed his invite and staff ID at the man at the door. He hadn’t bothered with a coat and headed straight to the temporary bar to grab a glass of what looked like champagne but was probably tasted like sparkling water someone had urinated into. But it gave him something to do with his hands as he turned and looked around the room, nodding at a few familiar faces before heading over to talk to Aldis, one of the guys from the Audio/Visual archive department.

Jensen had actually lost track of the time when he heard the gentle tinkling of a glass in the universal sign for quiet. He turned politely towards the noise, seeing the director of the Archives clutching a glass and a series of notecards. When he handed off the glass to his assistant, Jensen sighed internally. He had left it too late to hit the head and avoid the boredom of officialdom. He tuned out the opening remarks and glanced around the room. It was busier than when he’d arrived. More people in sober evening dress clustered around, giving the appearance of listening. Jensen was startled when he saw a dark head moving rather purposefully at the far side of the crowd.

He handed his glass to Aldis with a quiet murmured excuse and headed towards Misha Collins’ destination. Misha saw him coming and ducked into the gift shop. Jensen’s mouth tightened. He waited outside.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, when Misha came out. His cheeks were slightly pink and his hair was dishevelled as if he’d been running.

Misha looked at him, then did a double take, a lazy smile appearing on his face. He was dressed in a suit and tie, perfectly acceptable for the event, and Jensen knew he was appreciating the way the pants sat on Misha’s hips and the stretch of the jacket across his neat shoulders. In a “this guy is just your type” way. Misha’s eyes widened as he looked over Jensen’s shoulder and he started to hurry towards the exit again.

Jensen saw the security guards skirting round the edges of the room and turned to follow Misha. “What did you do? Mr Collins…”

“Dr Collins,” Misha interrupted him, not stopping or slowing. “And I really need to get out of here.”

“I can see that,” Jensen answered, sounding a little prissy even to himself. “What I want to know is why. Does this have something to do with the request you had earlier? The Declaration?”

They were nearing the doors and Misha broke into something more like a run as he crossed the last bit of floor. Jensen kept up with him, refusing to let him go. Then they were out in the chill of the night air and heading towards an SUV parked very illegally on the curb. Jensen could see Jared’s scruffy haircut as they got closer.

Misha opened the back door before he clambered into the driver’s seat. “Get in and I’ll explain.”

Jensen gaped for a moment and then climbed in. He had to stop Misha from doing whatever it was he was doing. Misha flung the car into drive and peeled away into the evening traffic, ignoring the shouts and horns that accompanied his borderline dangerous driving. Misha ignored all attempts at conversation until they were well out of sight of the Archives.

Jensen leaned forward from the back seat. "Where the hell are we going?"

Misha looked at Jared who looked right back at him blankly. "Any ideas?"

Jared shrugged. “I’m not the one who committed a felony. Possibly treason. And kidnapping.”

Jensen groaned. "Not only have I been kidnapped but you don't know what you are going to do with me!"

"Kidnapped is a bit on the harsh side," Misha replied. "More borrowed. Temporarily. You could help us out, actually."

Jensen slumped back against the seat and looked out of the window. They were driving towards the outskirts of DC, heading into more residential areas. There was a sharp, echoing noise as he did so and then he was grabbing for purchase on the seats as Misha swerved the car and swore very loudly. The strange noise came again, only this time the window behind Jensen shattered. There was a lot of bad language from the front seat as Misha glanced in the rear mirror before hitting the gas and weaving through the scattered traffic.

“Were we just shot at?” Jensen stuttered out, turning to look out of the vacant space where the rear windshield had been. “We were just shot at.”

He could see, what with the fishtailing and the swerving, another SUV – more like a tank – was closing on them, with a guy hanging out the passenger window with a gun. Jensen spun around and clutched at his seat belt. Another bullet ricocheted off the trunk of the car and Jensen unceremoniously scrambled to hide down in the foot well. He could feel the car accelerating again and hear more bullets slam into the car. His hands were being scratched by the glass but he ignored it all as Jared screamed at Misha to go faster and Misha just didn’t say anything.

Jensen lost track of the twists and turns and the sharp movements of the car. But the shots became quieter and spaced further apart until they stopped completely. Finally the car was pulled to a stop. Jensen didn’t move until the rear door was opened and he could look up into Misha’s steely eyes.

“C’mon. I’ll explain everything. I promise. Just-“ Misha stepped out of the way and Jensen could see a perfectly ordinary suburban house. Well, a house that needed some serious renovation. And a dozen coats of paint. “Come inside.”

Jensen extricated himself from the back and brushed the worst of the glass off. His tux wouldn’t be fixed by a quick trip to the drycleaner’s this time. Misha held out his hand and Jensen scowled at it. He might be more of a “sit behind a desk” than “jump into action” type of guy but he wasn’t a girl. “Where are we?”

“My old professor’s house,” Misha said, before ringing the doorbell. He had to ring it again and pound on the door before it creaked open. The person behind it tried to slam the door closed again but Misha was too quick, getting his foot in through the narrow gap. “Hey, Beav.”

The door opened to reveal an older man with a hastily trimmed grey beard and mottled red cheeks. “Misha. I thought I told you…” Then he looked beyond Misha at Jensen and the obviously bullet ridden SUV. He let out a heavy sigh. “You’d better come in.”

  
Jensen was shown into a living room that seems to double as book storage. He wouldn’t call it a library – that would imply some kind of organisations – but there were books everywhere. Jared had followed him and flung himself on the couch as the voices from the kitchen became louder and angrier.

“They’re always like this,” Jared said.

Jensen rocked on his heels and nodded. Then he went back to browsing the titles. There was even one of his books there. "It's not really my business. I'm sure that Mr Collins will just give up on this ridiculous quest of his and the police will catch whoever was shooting at us and I can go back to my job." Jensen slid a biography of Benjamin Franklin out and flicked through the pages.

Jared snorted at him. "Misha? Give up? The words aren't in his vocabulary."

"What do you mean by that?" Jensen asked, before they were interrupted by Misha and the professor storming into the living room.

"I had a room set up back in the warehouse but they made me. That's why I can't go home!" Misha was pretty near shouting, biting the words out angrily.

Jensen tapped him on the shoulder and had to take a step back when Misha spun round, right into his personal space, too close for comfort. It took him a moment to remember what he was going to say as Jensen took in the bright blue of his eyes and the scent of his cologne momentarily attacked places in Jensen's brain he knew didn't react like this too often.

The professor broke the tense silence. "You really have the Declaration?"

"Yeah." Misha pointed to the document tube that Jared was holding. "It's in there."

"And why do you think there's a map on the back?" Jensen interjected, suddenly realising what must have happened.

Misha looked at him. Then he looked at the clock. Then he looked at Professor Beaver who shrugged. "Okay. It'll probably go easier if I tell you the whole story. What do you know about treasure?"

  
There wasn't a day that didn't go by that Misha missed hearing about his famous ancestors. Or, at least, begging his dad to tell him the story. It was quite simple. The Founding Fathers had an amazing treasure that they wanted to keep safe. So they hid it. And they hid clues. And the first of the clues had been passed to Jeremiah Collins, a messenger boy from Philadelphia by a dying man. He was a great dying man, but a very old one. That man had been Charles Hamilton.

Misha had paced around the living room as he recounted his story. Because that was what it was. A recount, a report. There were no storytelling flourishes, no exaggerated fancy language. All that Misha said was the absolute truth. At least to him.

The clue was nonsense. "She lies with Charlotte," didn't make sense. Other Collins scions had traced graves of women called Charlotte, tried exploring the city. Nothing made sense until Misha had come across a reference to a ship, a sunken ship, in his reading. His voice grew colder then, harsher. "And that was when I met Mark Sheppard."

"I know him," Jensen said. "He's given a lot of money to the Smithsonian over the years. I met him at parties."

Misha laughed, a dry chuckle. "You academics! What's with all the parties?"

"Normally they are much more boring, because no one steals the exhibits and kidnaps me." Jensen gripped the back of the chair he was straddling and glared at Misha who nodded ruefully.

"I think you'll find that there are more people than me stealing artefacts. Sheppard for one." Misha ran his hands through his hair. It fell messily across his forehead and Jensen's fingers itched to brush it back.

He picked the story up again. Misha hadn't had a single request for funding approved. He watched the years go past in frustration until Sheppard showed up offering money and equipment and a way to finally see if his theory held water. And it did. They'd found the ship, frozen in the ice in the Arctic, found a meerschaum pipe and worked out that the next clue was on the back of the Declaration. It had to be. There were no other possible places.

"But I've seen the back of the Declaration," Jensen pointed out. "There's no markings on it."

"Invisible ink," muttered Jared, from where his head hung back over the edge of the too small couch. "Ancient invisible ink. That's the coolest part." He looked up to meet their disbelieving glares. "That and how Misha broke into the Archives, of course."

Misha looked guilty when Jensen brought his eyes back to him. "I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have..." He reached into his pocket and brought out Jensen's security tag. "I knew you wouldn't need it to leave the building. And I was going to post it back to you."

Jensen snatched it from him and replaced it in his pocket. "They'll think I'm helping you." He was overcome with a wave of fury. "I could lose my job!"

"Once we'd found the treasure, I was going to tell," Misha replied. Then he returned to his story. Sheppard had sold him out, taking the pipe and stranding Jared and Misha in the Arctic in the old sunken ship. Jared had managed to jury-rig his cell phone to call for help and now they had two things to do. Find the treasure and stop Sheppard finding it. "That's why I couldn't wait."

Jensen dropped his head down onto his arms. He was tired, his clothes were ripped and ruined and he was listening to one of the most ridiculous stories he'd ever heard. But when he looked at Misha, he had to say that he was leaning towards believing him. He'd read articles by Misha, which had all seemed wildly outside accepted thought and academic opinion, and he'd heard stories. In person, on the other hand, Misha was convincing. Dangerously so, perhaps. And there was the twisting in his stomach that made him aware that one of the reasons he wanted to believe Misha was the fact that he found him increasingly attractive. He was smart and knew all about one of Jensen's obsessions and he was hot. There was no getting around the hotness.

"If there's a map... If." He held up his hand to forestall the exclamations. Professor Beaver looked equally sceptical. "There'll be a mark. Top left hand corner. But there's not one. I've seen it."

"It's invisible," Misha shot back. "Just... Trust me. A little longer. Let me check if there's a mark and if there's not, I'll give myself up."

Jensen mulled it over and nodded, finally. "I don't suppose you've got a clean room, Professor?"

"Not at all. And if you think I'm taking any part in this..." Beaver stormed out of the room, leaving Misha, Jensen and the bemused Jared behind. He stomped back in a few minutes later, a pile of clothes in one hand and a couple of pairs of surgical gloves in the other. "Well, this is as far as I'm helping."

Jensen took the offered pile of clothes. "Bathroom?"

The sun was coming up by the time they finished. Jensen had winced with every crinkle of the paper, every brush of the q-tip across the surface. He didn’t think he’d taken more than shallow breaths for hours now. Jared had curled himself into an uncomfortable knot on the too-small couch and “Stop calling me Professor, dammit” Jim had fallen asleep in the recliner behind the desk. It had turned into Misha and him, shoulder to shoulder, barely touching the precious document in front of them. But they touched each other plenty. Shoulders brushing every time they leaned forward to take a closer look, hips checking as they fought for space.

Jensen wasn’t sure if it was the two glasses of champagne, the wild ride, the lack of sleep or the proximity of one Misha Collins that was making him dizzy. He pinched his nose between his eyes, feeling his contacts, gritty and sore from being left in all night.

“What does it mean?” Misha muttered, as they looked at the mysterious image and legend.

“Well, it’s not a map,” Jensen pointed out. “I need to go take my contacts out.” He stumbled toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt to rinse his face in the sink after he’d fished out the tiny lenses. It had to mean something. It just had to. There was no way it was nonsense. Not after all this time.

It came to him while he was towelling off his face. “Philadelphia. Liberty Hall.”

Misha burst through the unlocked door. “It’s Liberty Hall. We have to go to Philly.” There was an enormous grin on his face.

Jensen was equally elated and stepped forward into Misha’s suddenly open arms. It was only when he felt Misha’s hands brush down the naked skin on his back that he realised he was topless. Jensen stiffened and tried to pull back. Misha held on for a moment longer, hands no longer just hugging but moving towards caressing. Jensen felt a shiver go through his body and knew if he looked down, his nipples would be stiff. He started to blush. Misha dropped his arms, seemingly realising the awkwardness of the moment. He turned around, facing the door.

“I’ll… I’ll go get your glasses. I think you left the case on the table.” Misha closed the door behind him. Jensen scrambled back into his t-shirt and thought unpleasant thoughts until the bulge in his borrowed sweat pants was less noticeable.

  
Jim hadn’t been sad to see them go. He’d grumbled at Misha’s request to take his car at first, but Jensen soon worked out that Jim’s attitude was more habit than any real annoyance. Jim had been shaken to see the image on the back of the Declaration. Jared had just pronounced it cool. The professor had taken a picture with a digital camera and sat back in his recliner and eyed the drinks cabinet on the far side of the room with far too much interest that early in the morning.

Jensen could feel exhaustion taking over as Jared pulled out onto the highway. For all that it was still ridiculously early, the traffic was heavy. Misha leaned over the front seat.

“It’ll take us at least three hours to get there. You should sleep.” Misha pointed at the blanket folded neatly on the shelf underneath the rear window. “Use that.”

Jensen tugged it down and slid down behind his firmly fastened seatbelt. There was a moment where he thought about asking Misha to come and join him under the blanket, but thought that was probably something he should wait to do when Jared wasn’t there, sucking down an enormous cup of coffee.

The weather was nice in Philadelphia. Sunny. Jensen’s general interest in the world outside the cocoon of his blanket was further piqued when Misha waved a cup of coffee under his nose. Then the memories of being kidnapped, shot at, having the Declaration of Independence stolen by someone he’d dismissed as a lunatic and who he was now following on his crazy quest flooded back. Jensen shot upright, sloshing the hot coffee over his t-shirt. Misha rescued the coffee while Jensen pulled the shirt from his skin. He swore, loudly and profusely.

“So, wait until you’re upright before handing you coffee in the morning?” Misha said, his smirk soft as he stood back from the car door. “That’s good to know.”

“Planning on bringing me coffee in the morning often?” Jensen shot back, before thinking about how that sounded. “Never mind.”

Misha shrugged one shoulder and held the coffee cup out again for Jensen to take it. “Jared had a good plan. Well. He thought we should get disguises. I thought a change of clothes would be a good plan.”

Jensen looked out of the car and saw they were parked outside a row of shops. He recognised a couple of chain stores. “Sounds even better now I’ve got coffee all over my clothes.” He unfurled the blanket, shoved his glasses up his nose and clambered out. Shoes that weren’t his dress ones would also be a good idea. He took the coffee from Misha and headed towards the nearest store.

Behind him, he thought he heard Misha say “I’d love to bring you coffee every morning” but reckoned it was just his imagination.

  
Jensen shrugged into the black v-neck sweater he’d picked up. Misha had held out a green one and muttered something about bringing out his eyes. Jensen had frowned at him. He was more comfortable in black, especially over the jeans that were much more comfortable than the rolled up sweat pants he’d been in. New boots – he’d been meaning to pick up some anyway – completed the look. Jensen fingercombed his hair in the changing room mirror and gathered the tags to take to the checkout.

Misha was already there, leaning over with his elbows on the counter. Jared was obviously trying something he thought was flirting with the sales assistant off to the side. Jensen knew he really shouldn’t but he couldn’t help that his eyes slid down the curve of Misha’s spine and snagged on the way the new pants shaped around the globes of Misha’s ass and clung to his muscular thighs. He wasn’t overly muscular, not like Jared. He was fit though. Jensen liked that. He liked lean men who looked after their bodies. And were smart. He wasn’t a snob. He didn’t need an Ivy League degree or anything. He just wanted to be able to carry on a conversation that wasn’t “Your lips are so hot”. And even better if the guy was interested in history.

And maybe he liked messy black hair and five o’clock shadows and blue eyes and narrow hips.

Jensen snorted to himself. The guy had still stolen the Declaration, gotten Jensen shot at _after_ kidnapping him. So maybe Misha had some things to work on too.

Jensen stopped drooling at Misha’s ass and handed the tags over to pay. Misha handed over his credit card and signed for the amount without asking Jensen. He seemed wrapped up in thought.

“I need a hundred dollar bill,” he said, out of nowhere. Jared didn’t look like random statements that made no sense from Misha were anything out of the ordinary. Jensen opened his wallet, already knowing that he had nothing larger than a couple of twenties. Jared shook his head and Misha turned his intent, focused stare on the sales assistant. Jared added to the look by smiling and making his eyes soft and pleading.

“I can’t,” the girl said. “Really.”

Jensen sighed. “My watch? It’s worth like a couple of thousand. It was a gift. If I give you it, will you let him look at a hundred dollar bill?” He had no idea why he offered, but when Misha turned that brilliant lazy grin to him, he maybe had an inkling. The salesgirl was happy to oblige after that.

Then they were on the move again, scrambling to reach Liberty Hall, fleeing from Sheppard’s goons, from the man himself. Jensen recognised him from the events he’d attended, but the arrogant smile was gone, replaced with a look of implacable obsession that twisted his less than attractive features into something beyond ugly.

He still cheered when Misha slid the brick out of the wall, turning it upside down to let something small fall into his hands. Jensen had handed over his empty spectacle case when Misha asked. It was only the cold barrel of the gun being pressed into the base of his spine that let him know that they hadn’t got away with it.

Jared didn’t look any happier when the gun in his back prodded them towards a coffee shop and into the seats beside the window. Jensen looked out to see Misha caught on the other side of the street, unable to run away or to even sock Sheppard in the jaw like he was clearly dying to. Jensen watched, helpless against the threat of the guns and the cold merciless eyes of Sheppard’s men, as Misha handed over the document tube with the Declaration. Sheppard screwed it open, nodded to his men and, in the time a truck took to pass by and block Jensen’s stare, vanished, leaving Misha standing there alone, head drooping. The henchmen left too.

Jared beat Jensen across the street, patting Misha on the shoulder sympathetically. Jensen was less guarded, instead hugging Misha tightly. He had gone for the one armed manly hug but Misha had turned in some odd way that meant Jensen found himself pressed tightly to him, chest to chest, hips aligned. Jensen let himself sink into the embrace for a moment, softening his body when Misha pulled tighter.

“I’m sorry,” Misha said when they let go. “I shouldn’t…”

“So where to next, boss?” Jared asked. He opened his mouth again as if to say something else, hesitated and closed it again.

Misha rubbed his hands together. “New York.”

“New York?” Jared asked.

“The town so great, they named it twice,” Misha replied, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Jared drove again, yelling at the slow moving traffic. It still only took them a couple of hours to get out of Philadelphia and head north again. Misha made the time fly in, leaning over the back of his seat in a way that made Jensen’s back cramp in sympathy and telling stories. For all that Misha seemed obsessed with the idea of this treasure, something Jensen was starting to understand.

It wasn’t the gold. It wasn’t even to prove that his family hadn’t been wrong all those years. It was the way that all the pieces were falling into place. It was the promise of knowledge, of finding something out. Jensen could appreciate that. The long days he spent digging through decrepit documents, hunting down caches of dusty, forgotten files in the backs of libraries and archives made this search completely familiar to him. It just usually took longer and involved fewer guns.

Jensen wasn’t above remembering the way Misha’s body had felt pressed against him. He certainly wasn’t above ignoring the way Misha’s eyes sparkled and danced and made him feel caught up in the adrenaline rush. Manhattan’s skyline was looming on the horizon as Jared pulled the car into the parking lot of a train station. Jared pulled the car into an empty space.

“Okay. I respect Prof Beaver way too much to take his car into Manhattan. I say we leave it here and get the train the rest of the way.” Jared glared between them. “Then one of you is feeding me and the other is putting me up in a proper bed for the night. Whatever we got to go see in New York can wait until I’ve had pizza, a beer and at least six hours sleep in a room that doesn’t include you two.”

Jared got out of the car and Jensen winced at the cracking of his spine when Jared stretched up. “Guess he’s not really meant to drive a Prius.”

Misha laughed and Jensen found himself smiling along. “Jared would struggle to drive a Humvee comfortably. But I got to say, I agree with his plan.”

“We’re going to need daylight anyway,” Jensen agreed. He slid out of the car and stretched himself, arms to the sky. He turned to see Misha’s attention focused at the base of his spine where his sweater had ridden up. Anticipation ran up his spine. “Dinner and a hotel room?”

A flush spread over Misha’s cheeks and Jensen felt a little gleeful. He was usually the one stuttering and stammering through everything. Misha recovered with an effort and tried to reply with his usual nonchalance. “Sounds like a date, Mr Ackles.”

Jensen just looked over his shoulder as he sauntered towards the ticket office.

Grand Central Station was pretty, well, grand. Jensen had driven past it a few times on his trips up to New York but never actually been inside. The entrance hall chandelier was enormous, a glittering cascade of lights. The oddly soothing aqua green of the ceiling felt totally out of place in a train station. Washington’s Metro might have these enormous tunnels but they were still grey concrete. This look belonged to a concert hall, to the Capitol. Not to a train station.

Jensen was so caught up in his musing that he knocked into Jared’s back when he stopped abruptly. Through the shifting crowds ahead of them, Jensen was suddenly aware of people in suits and black trenchcoats moving purposely towards them. People who screamed police. Misha had been walking ahead of them, looking for the exit. Jensen spun around to see the net being tightened behind him too. Misha’s shoulders slumped as the man in front of him held up a pair of handcuffs.

“Misha Collins, I’m arresting you on suspicion of theft. And possibly treason. Now you gonna come quietly?” The lead cop was older than them, weary at the world and the ridiculousness of the situation. His eyes were as bloodshot with exhaustion as Jensen thought his were. He’d obviously been chasing them through as many sleepless nights.

Misha turned around without a word and let his wrists be shackled. Jared pulled at Jensen’s shoulder, tugging him away towards an exit lined with stores. They ducked inside the first one, watching through the window as Misha was led towards the opposite side of the station, surrounded by more people than seemed strictly necessary.

“This is not good,” Jared moaned.

Jensen was trying to think about what he could do. Jared and he had ended up in a tiny pizza place, a few blocks down from the station. Jensen didn’t really know where they were but knew that they’d be safe here for a few hours at least. He had no idea what Misha would do.

Jared was alternating between drinks from his beer, enormous bites of pizza and tapping away on the phone he’d pulled from his pocket. It was more like a mini-computer than a phone to be truthful. Jensen knew it wasn’t an iPad but other than that he was kinda lost. “Okay. From this, I can pretty much work out that that wasn’t the NYPD that arrested Misha.”

“FBI,” Jensen replied, stating a fact rather than making it a question. “There’s no way we can get him out.”

“Not that I can think of. And I can’t hack into their system using this. I’d need to be… elsewhere.” Jared looked shifty at the last statement.

Suddenly, the device in his hand started to vibrate. He looked at it in shock before bringing it to his ear. Jensen leaned in when he heard Jared say, “Hello, Misha.”

Misha’s voice came through the tinny speaker clearly. “This is my phone call. I was picked up by the FBI. They want the Declaration back and they’re not buying the treasure story.”

“What can we do?” Jensen asked.

Misha’s voice sounded dull. “There’s nothing you can do. They won’t believe me when I say Sheppard has it. You should go home, go back to your lives.”

Jensen pulled away to think about it. Jared was asking who else he should call, a lawyer, Prof Beaver, anyone. It sounded like Misha was responding negatively to all his questions. The phone call cut off in the middle of Jared asking if he could bring anything.

“We should probably move. They’ll have tracked the call,” Jared told him, gathering up his equipment. Jensen watched him scrambled around. There was an idea flirting at the back of his mind. “We should probably get a hotel room.”

Jensen looked at him a little askance.

“Or two? I’m not going to molest you or anything. Misha likes you. And I’m straight.” Jared slugged down the last of his coffee.

Jensen nodded and followed him out of the café. “Misha likes me,” he repeated, wincing a little. He sounded like a teenage girl. “What do you mean ‘Misha likes me’?”

Jared looked at him a little impatiently. Jensen hurried to catch up.

They’d ended up in a trendy touristy hotel just off Times Square. Jensen knew that paying with his credit card was risky, but it wasn’t like they had any choice. The sleep he’d managed to grab had been broken and mainly in the back of a car. He stretched out on the queen bed nearest the window while Jared sat on the other and began reassembling the kit he’d been building in the cafe. Jensen fell asleep to the sound of keys tapping.

He bolted awake in the middle of the night. “Sheppard!” he exclaimed.

Jared had given up on whatever he had been doing and was woken by his shout. “What?” he said, drearily.

“That’s how we get Misha out. And prove he’s right. And find the treasure,” Jensen explained. He sat up. “Give me your phone.”

Jared looked at the clock on the TV in the room. “It’s three am. Can it wait until morning?”

Jensen tapped his hands on the bedspread. It made sense. No one would be up yet. He needed to find phone numbers and explain everything. Jared groaned and pulled the comforter up over his head. He was probably right. They needed to sleep. They needed to be ready to solve the next step once and for all.

  
Jensen tapped his hands on the formica table. It had taken some time to find the phone number where Sheppard could be reached after all. Jensen had finally given up on sleep at six am and showered and then realised he should probably find some more clothes. By the time he'd got back to the room, Jared was still snoring heavily, sprawled on his back with his mouth wide open. He hadn't really appreciated the frantic shaking and the handing over of very hot coffee.

Jensen didn't care.

Between Jared's computer skills and Jensen' contacts, they'd managed to get in contact with Sheppard within an hour. Sheppard had insisted they meet at his offices and Jensen had argued him out of it. They’d arranged to meet him in a diner off Broadway. Jared had set up his computer equipment again, typing frantically, while Jensen watched out the window. Every time they had to wait was a delay. There wasn't urgency, not really. The treasure had been lost for hundreds of years. It was safe. But Jensen was uneasy by the thought of Misha stuck in jail. He wondered if he'd managed to get any sleep. Would they keep him in an interrogation room or would they stick him in a cell? They'd have to feed him. That was basic human rights. But Jensen still worried.

Then he worried a little about why he was worrying. He didn't really know Misha Collins. He could count the hours that he'd spent with the man. But, running for your life, being held at gunpoint and working with the man who had held you at gunpoint all put things into perspective. Jensen knew that his life would never be the same after this, however it ended. And he knew that he definitely didn't want his life to not have one Misha Collins in it.

The door to the diner opened and Sheppard strolled in, accompanied by one of his goons. In his hands was the document tube he'd taken from Misha in Philadelphia. The Declaration. Jensen sighed in relief. He hadn't thought that Sheppard would do anything to it but there was still a real possibility.

"Let's get this show on the road, Ackles," Sheppard said, rubbing his hands together as he sat on the other side of the table. "How are you going to help me get my treasure?"

  
Trinity Church was an incongruous building. The Stock Exchange was the lynchpin of downtown, the financial district towers stretching up to the sky. There might be tall buildings elsewhere in the world, but New York still cornered the market in skyscrapers. The church was old. Old for New York, old for America. Not so old when Jensen thought about the rest of the world. Jared was suitably impressed. They'd passed the shiny brass bull in the cab on the way here. Jensen hadn't really been  
able to pay much attention. They stood on the sidewalk and watched Misha draw up in another cab, Sheppard by his side. There was a moment when they all stood facing each other, stock still and silent, when a thousand things passed unspoken between them all. Finally Sheppard broke the tension.

"You sure this is the place?" He looked sceptical.

Misha nodded. He explained about the old street names and Jensen was listening, honestly. But underneath he was checking Misha over to make sure he was unharmed. He looked tired - Jensen supposed he did too - the skin under his eyes darker than normal, his blue eyes dimmed. But they brightened as he looked up at the church. Of all the glorious constructions of steel and glass and human ingenuity around them, it was this simple church that made Misha vibrate with excitement.

Jensen smiled. Then shivered. It might be spring but it was still cold out in the street. "Inside?" he suggested.

  
They crowded into a couple of pews after looking around the building. Jensen was pressed tight up against Misha's side by the goon that sat next to him. Jensen was tall, he was fit, but he was no match for a man with a shiny, well maintained gun. Misha didn't complain, letting his free hand rest on Jensen's thigh.

"So what now?" Sheppard asked, still on his feet and pacing up and down the main aisle. The church was echoingly empty this early in the morning. An older priest had been lighting candles down at the front when they came in but scampered when Sheppard handed him a bundle of notes. There was a scuffle at the back of the church then. The noise of someone complaining grumpily about being mishandled. Jensen twisted in his seat to see Professor Beaver being dragged in, cursing and struggling. He went still when another gun was shoved into his side. He walked down the aisle and sat on the other side of Jared.

Sheppard let him get settled. Then he rapped his knuckled on the pew in front impatiently. "I don't see my treasure," he ground out in his muddled accent.

"I need the Declaration," Misha said, fishing out the spectacles with the lenses they'd found at Liberty Hall out of his pocket. Sheppard hesitated before handing over the document tube. Jensen took control of it, gently unscrewing the top, barely breathing as he eased the crumbling document out of the tube. He'd have to do so much restoration work when he got back to the Archives. If they let him go back to the Archives. If he made it out of this without getting shot. Misha helped him unroll it before placing the glasses on his nose and flicking the levers at the side. He grinned, delighted and enraptured despite the guns and the threats and everything. "It says Under Kensington." Then he frowned. “Like in London?” he mused aloud.

Jensen sat back. He found his gaze caught by the elaborate memorials lining the church. At the front, behind the altar, was one that read Jonathan Kensington. He lifted his hand and pointed, ignoring the shaking. "There?"

Misha looked at him with awe. The others rushed forward, leaving them sitting there together. They poked and pushed at the stone, grunting with effort. Misha leaned closer to Jensen.

"Sorry I got arrested."

"Sorry I had to get Sheppard involved to break you out." Jensen let his head drop until he was resting against Misha's hair. "I didn't know any other way..."

Misha didn't reply when Jensen trailed off. Instead he brought his hand up and entwined his fingers with Jensen's, squeezing tightly. Then Sheppard pulled a gun from his pocket and shot at the memorial stone. It shattered, loud and echoing in the quiet of the church. There was nothing behind the stone but a gaping, black, spider webbed draped tunnel.

"Let's go," Sheppard shouted, gesturing with the gun. Misha got to his feet, dragging Jensen up by their joined hands. Jensen squeezed tightly before letting go and looking into the dark gaping hole. One of Sheppard’s goon pulled out a flashlight and shone it in to reveal a wider passageway beyond the opening.

"Who goes first?” Jared asked, looking a little scared. Everyone looked at him. “Guess that means me, huh.”

Misha stepped forward and held his hand out for the flashlight. “I’ll do it. Only right.”

Sheppard snapped out a few orders leaving one of his men behind “Just in case” and watched impatiently as Misha boosted himself up to climb over the crumbled and splinted coffin and bones that were still lying there. Jensen could only see the light when Misha reached the other side. Then his head popped up, flashlight held under his chin.

“There’s steps!” Misha’s voice held the same excitement and wonderment that Jensen had heard every time they solved a clue, or found something new and amazing that the people who had founded their nation, who were their ancestors, had created. Jensen knew he probably spoke with exactly the same tone sometimes.

One of Sheppard’s men went next, then Jensen. Sheppard followed him, Jared next, making sounds of disgust every time he even went near the skeleton. Prof Beaver followed and then the last of Sheppard’s men. For all that they had Sheppard and his crew outnumbered, Jensen knew that there’d not be any use trying to fight. Guns still outweighed any other consideration. Misha had the case with the Declaration over his shoulder and he led the way.

It was pitch dark where the flashlight wasn’t shining. Jensen shivered. Then the beam of light flickered. Misha turned, a little panicked. Jensen wasn’t sure if it was at the light going out or at the idea he wouldn’t be able to finish this demented quest. Then Misha grinned, wide and easy. “Anyone got a light?”

The beam of light fixed on the wall. A – well, Jensen had no better descriptive word than torch – hung in a sconce. The others muttered negatives as he dug in the pocket of his jeans. Maybe he didn’t smoke anymore. Didn’t mean he’d stopped carrying his lighter. He flicked it open and held it steady as Misha pulled the torch off the wall and held it to the flame. Their eyes met as the flame caught and the torch sparked into life, providing a warmer glow than the dying flashlight. By its light, Jensen could see other torches on the walls of the tunnel that still stretched downwards ahead of them. Sheppard’s men could obviously see the same thing. They wrestled a couple down and held them to the torch Misha held.

Jensen ended up walking behind Misha. He wanted to stretch out his hand, grab onto Misha’s belt, or onto Misha’s free hand. Just something to reassure himself that Misha was still there, still real. Beyond Misha, Jensen sensed that the quality of the darkness was changing. The air wasn’t as stagnant. His instincts were proved right. They stumbled out onto a thin ledge overhanging a deep chasm cut into the earth. It definitely wasn’t natural. Especially considering the steps winding their way around the outside and the platform in the middle.

Jensen kept tight to the wall. He wasn’t fond of heights at the best of times. And the steps? Wooden, fixed together with frayed, ancient rope and pegs. Jensen knew there were buildings that had survived for hundreds, thousands of years. But those buildings had been maintained, rotting wood been replaced. From the amount of spider’s webs in the passage they’d come through, this place hadn’t been touched since it had been built.

Misha was out at the edge of the platform, peering downward. Jensen had the urge to hold onto his belt again. “It’s a dumb waiter!” Misha suddenly said.

“A what?” Jared asked. He hovered on the ledge, looking a little uneasily at the gun shining in the torchlight. The goon didn’t look impressed. Or moved. Or anything that required an expression, really.

Sheppard was rubbing his hands. “Stairs or elevator, then?”

Jensen looked at them all like they were mad. Luckily Misha was the one to answer. “Stairs.”

“You go first then, Collins.” There was no question in Sheppard’s voice. Just steel.

Misha moved to the start of the steps. Jensen came up close behind him. “There’s four of us… We could-“

Misha looked back at him. He leaned in to place a soft kiss on Jensen’s cheek. “They’ve got guns. And don’t you want to know what happens?”

Jensen thought for a moment, swallowing as he looked down into the endless darkness. He had a feeling they were almost at the end of their search, one way or another. “Take it slowly.”

“Always do,” was the shot back response. Jensen didn’t agree with that one. Even so, Misha carefully settled his foot firmly on the first step. The plank squeaked a little but didn’t move. Misha moved to the next one. Jensen swallowed. He had to take the next step. Misha looked over his shoulder again, meeting his eyes. Jensen nodded and started climbing down. He heard the others muttering behind him but focused on solidly planting his feet one after the other.

The problem became apparent pretty quickly. Every so often, a plank had splintered or slipped its moorings and there were gaps. One plank could be stepped over with care, using the banisters to balance on. Three missing steps were more demanding. Misha had to jump. Jensen’s heart was in his mouth the entire time. Then it came to his turn to jump. Misha had stopped, waiting for him. Jensen let go of the top step and stumbled into Misha at the other end. They held onto each other for a moment, glad to be safe. Then an ominous creaking sound started. Jensen looked down to see the section of stairway ahead of them slowly, irrevocably, coming away from the earth wall.

Misha’s eyes widened. He grabbed Jensen’s arm and started running down the steps. Jensen saw what he was trying to do – reach the next section before the stairs went tumbling into the abyss with them attached. Jensen was eager to not spend his last minutes flying through space. He ran.

Misha jumped ahead of him landing on the next set of stairs. Jensen wasn’t so lucky. The section he was on started moving more rapidly and he had to jump to reach the next bit. He couldn’t quite reach the safety of the next stairs. His outstretched fingertips brushed the edge and he started to follow the steps into the darkness. Misha’s long fingers wrapped around his wrists and Jensen dangled in mid-air, body swaying as he listened to the falling section smashing huge chunks of wood off the steps it passed as it fell. There was an oddly empty boom as it hit the bottom. A very, very long way below.

Misha strained to pull Jensen up. Jensen scrambled, legs flailing, trying to gain purchase in nothingness. Eventually Misha managed to get Jensen’s arms up high enough for him to grab onto the edge of the steps. Misha eased himself to the side as Jensen pulled himself up, aided by Misha grabbing onto his belt and pulling. They lay, side by side, holding tight to each other, while their breathing evened out. Jensen’s nose was even with Misha’s crotch and he wondered if Misha would object to an impromptu congratulatory “thank you for saving my life” blowjob. Instead he rested his cheek on Misha’s thigh and listened to his heartbeat race.

A rhythmic squeaking had them looking around in panic. But the steps they were on weren’t moving. Instead the giant dumb waiter platform was moving down to meet them. Sheppard looked gleeful as he came level with them. “C’mon, lovebirds.”

Jensen scowled as he climbed onto the wooden platform. The rest of the ride into the dark went past in tense silence, broken only by the echoing rumble of subway trains.

  
The blank empty walls were broken by a niche carved into the bedrock. It had been whitewashed, a long time ago, and though the paint was flaking, it stood out like a diamond in the torchlight. A single lantern hung from the roof. Misha hopped off the wooden platform and lit the stub of candle inside. He looked around the shallow niche and Jensen watched as his shoulders slumped. All the fight just seemed to go out of Misha.

“Where’s my treasure?” barked Sheppard.

Misha shook his head. Professor Beaver stepped forward and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Jensen climbed off the platform and joined them, Jared at his heels.

“It’s another clue, isn’t it? Misha?” Jim’s voice was soft despite its gruffness. Misha nodded, hiding his face in his hands.

“That’s what it always is. Another clue, followed by another clue. Never the treasure.” Jensen laid his arm across Misha’s shoulders and was surprised when Misha buried his face in his neck. He was sure he felt the soft brush of lips before Misha wrapped his arms tight.

Sheppard was apoplectic behind them “Another clue?”

“It’s the lantern,” the Professor explained. “Paul Revere…”

“Spare me the history lesson. Where next?” Sheppard swung his gun around to point at Jared who put his hands up. “Tell me or the Moose gets it.”

Jared’s “hey” was drowned out by Misha raising his head. He kept his eyes fixed on Jensen, not looking at Sheppard. “Boston. The Old North Church. The lantern hung in the steeple. Look there.”

Sheppard nodded, curtly. Then he stepped back from the edge of the platform and nodded at his henchman. The platform shuddered upwards. Jared cried out in protest again.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way out. Or if I find out that it’s just another clue, I’m going to know where to find you.” Sheppard’s gloating voice floated down the shaft. Jared ran out to shout threats and curses up at the ascending elevator while Misha gave Jensen a final squeeze and stepped back.

“Jared!” he called, and Jared turned to see him gesturing. Professor Beaver also looked gleeful, a smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth. “C’mon.”

Jared came back slowly. Jensen narrowed his eyes at Misha. “You lied to him.”

“I did.” Misha was running his hands over the wall behind them.

“Why?” Jensen demanded, folding his arms.

Misha shrugged. “He shot at you. I didn’t like that.” Then he pushed at a section of the wall and it crumbled under his hands.

Jared was still catching up. “You lied? The treasure’s here?” He peered wide eyed into the gap. Misha couldn’t wait. He climbed through the hole, Jensen close behind. They tumbled into a second room, white washed and dusty. The air in here was foul, stuffy and stagnant. It was obvious no one had been down here in a long time. The room was also completely empty.

Misha gazed around, his eyes sad. Jared and Jim followed them in. “Is this is?” Jared asked.

A stone block, half carved, sat on the dusty floor and Misha collapsed down onto it. There was writing on the wall, sure enough, but no treasure. Not even a single gold coin. Jensen felt the adrenaline leave him and hopelessness set in. He laid a hand on Misha’s shoulder and squeezed. Then he wandered around, looking at the writing. Some of it was graffiti, left behind by the workers. He smiled sadly at the polite yet fervent diatribes against the British. He had to brush away cobwebs and dust, careful to not disturb the paint. There was a kind of treasure here, proof of the ingenuity of the founding fathers. Jensen looked over at Misha who was staring blankly at the floor. Jensen’s fingers encountered a depression in the wall. The shape looked familiar.

“It’s all right, Misha,” Professor Beaver said, sitting beside on the stone. “You got further than anyone ever has before. You proved that your ancestors were right, that there was a trail to follow.”

“It ends here, though.” Misha kicked at the stone. “There’s no way up. No stairs. Nothing.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jensen told him absently. He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe at the depression, wishing he had some of the tools from the Archive. A brush, or something. “The workers would have had another way out. They wouldn’t just use the shaft.”

Jared coughed at the flying dust. “More stairs?”

Jensen stood back from the shape – a carved roundel with a gap in the middle. “Stairs. Another way out.” He tilted his head to look at the shape. “Misha…?”

Misha came and stood by his shoulder before digging in his pocket. He pulled out a carved scrimshaw pipe. “Sheppard let me keep it.”

“From the Charlotte?” Jensen could barely breathe. It was the same shape – it matched the gap in the roundel. “You don’t think?”

“A key as well as a clue?” Misha said, keeping his voice steady. He leaned over and eased the pipe head into to the gap. There was an audible click as it fell into place. Then Misha turned it. The roundel spun easily despite its age and there was a series of clunking noises.

Jim was on his feet in the middle of the room and they all looked around wildly. Jensen was the first to see the gap in the lantern light. “There!”

  
The room beyond might have started life as a natural cave. The air in it had the same kind of damp coolness that a cave had. But Jensen could tell from the echoes that it was vast. The torch light illuminated only a tiny portion of the space though. A tiny portion crowded with the gleam of gold, the sparkles of gems, treasures from a thousand different cultures. An Egyptian statue cheek by jowl with Mesoamerican plate. Jewellery and coins and armour and just about everything imaginable.

A stone chest stood in front of him, scrolls poking up in no real order. Jensen stumbled forward, tripping over something no doubt priceless and beyond belief. The scrolls were old. Really old. He brought a hand down to hover over one of the labels. It was in Greek, with a hieroglyphic translation underneath. “From Alexandria? Scrolls from Alexandria?”

He looked up to see Misha equally dumbfounded. “It’s real.”

Jared was hugging one of the Egyptian statues, Jim was scratching his head in disbelief. Jensen stood up and came close to Misha. “It’s all real. And you found it.”

“We found it,” Misha said, swaying forward. His eyes were fixed on Jensen. He wasn’t looking at any of the gold or rubies or diamonds or… history… spilling around their feet. Misha stepped even closer and Jensen brought his hands up to rest at his waist. Misha smiled, lazily, like they had all the time in the world. Jensen was slightly less patient. He pulled Misha close and – finally – kissed him. It was too hard at first, all teeth and lips mashing together but then they pulled apart, wound their bodies closer and tilted their heads to the perfect angle. Jensen felt a burn in the pit of his stomach, a heat that spread out and through his whole body. He was panting slightly when they pulled back for air.

Jim was poking at a vase filled with a black powder. He lifted his torch and touched it to the powder and then jumped back as it started to spark and take flame. Misha and Jensen watched in wonder, still wrapped in each other’s arms, as the flame spread along stone channels that crisscrossed the entirety of the vast cavern underneath the greatest city in the world. The flames glinted off more wealth than could be counted, let alone understood.

Jensen jumped as Jared spoke, seemingly unawed, undaunted by the sight in front of them. Instead he pointed to the furthest reaches of the room. “Stairs!”

Jensen rested his head on the top of Misha’s when Misha laid his head on his shoulder. It felt like they fit. “Stairs!” he repeated softly under his breath. Misha started to laugh.

  
After they had climbed out of the cavern and emerged back into the nave of Trinity Church, it turned out that the world had kept going without them. The FBI were waiting to take Misha back into custody, no one believed them about the treasure and Sheppard was still on the loose. When Misha produced a rather interesting artefact from his pocket and handed the Declaration over – with the glasses – to Special Agent in Charge Gamble and she verified the messages on the back… Jensen watched the situation spin on its axis. There were questions and interrogations and arrests of the right people. There was a hotel room with an enormous bed in a very nice hotel that ended up being used for sleeping in before any other intended deeds were carried out.

Misha had looked at him that morning, eyes piercing blue, hair flattened and tugged and just ready for Jensen to run his fingers through. Looked as if he hadn’t seen Jensen for a thousand years. Jensen wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. It was hard to remember that he’d only known Misha for days.

Jensen rolled out of bed without waiting and headed to the bathroom. He heard Misha wandering around the bedroom behind him as he brushed his teeth with one hand and raked through the complimentary toiletries with another. He was pretty sure he had a condom in his wallet but lube was something he didn’t tend to carry with him. He read over the list of ingredients in the body lotion, sniffed it, and decided that he didn’t really mind the rather woodsy scent.

He had a quick shower, towelled off even more quickly and returned to the bedroom. He’d half thought Misha would be flicking through news channels but instead Misha was in a hotel bathrobe, holding two mugs of coffee, drinking from one. He held the other out to Jensen. Jensen felt a little underdressed in just his towel but took the mug anyway, inhaling the scent of the coffee before sipping it. He then noticed a familiar looking bottle on the nightstand and choked a little.

Misha had lube. Jensen wondered what the hell he was doing drinking coffee.

“You-“ he started. Then he had to put the mug down before he shook all the coffee out. Misha looked a little smug at that. Jensen felt a weight lift from him, as if he finally understood that everything was going to be okay. That this entire ordeal was over. He reached for the towel and dropped it to the ground, feeling even lighter when a slightly glazed look wiped the smug grin from Misha’s face. Then a look of hunger replaced it and Misha dumped his own coffee before running across the floor and slamming into Jensen. Jensen fell backwards onto the bed, tugging Misha between his legs and pulling his lips closer for a kiss.

There was no way on earth he was ever going to get tired of kissing Misha. There were soft kisses, in between long probing kisses and kisses that started at mouth and roamed over necks and shoulders and that spot underneath Jensen’s ear that made him roll up off the bed and attempt to wrap his legs around Misha all at once.

He pulled at Misha’s robe forcing it open and down over his shoulders, grumping as it caught around the tie. “Stupid tie,” Jensen mumbled working it free. Misha was concentrating on biting a mark just above his nipple.

“I look good in a tie,” Misha replied, shifting upright until he was kneeling between Jensen’s legs. He discarded the robe and Jensen drank his fill of Misha, his lean chest, the trail of hair leading down to his cock, the narrow hips just beginning for Jensen’s hands to hold tight and draw him close. Misha looked wrecked, a flush high on his cheeks and lips swollen and puffy. Jensen wanted to kiss them again. But he also wanted to map every inch of Misha with his lips, suck that hard cock down, feel Misha’s beg for more.

Misha seemed to sense Jensen’s indecision and reached out a hand for the lube. He missed the first time, too busy keeping his eyes on Jensen, fixed and fixated. Then he slicked up his fingers, trailing them between Jensen’s legs as he arched up, opening, offering himself to Misha. Misha kissed him again, messily now, tongue sliding and breaths panting into Jensen’s mouth, as he prepped Jensen more gently than he liked.

“I’m ready,” Jensen said, gasping as he felt Misha’s arm brush his cock.

Misha looked a little sad at that. “But I wanted to take my time, lay you out, explore every inch of your body.” He punctuated every phrase with a clever twist of his fingers, making Jensen rear up from the bed again, press himself against Misha’s skin in every way he could. His hands ended up scrabbling over Misha’s back to try and pull him closer.

“Later. More time later.” Jensen succeeded in making Misha fall forward again and delighted in the feel of firm abs against his too long neglected dick. “Fuck me now.” The use of the unaccustomed profanity made Misha finally take notice and withdraw his fingers, lining himself up and pressing into Jensen.

“I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you in your office, hair tousled, glasses on and that pen between your lips,” Misha murmured into his ear as he waited for Jensen to adjust to the stretch, the delicious too full stretch.

Jensen looked up at that, eyes wide. Misha was absolutely serious. There was a gentleness in his expression totally at odds and perfectly matching the pressure of his body against Jensen, taut like a drawn bow. Jensen brought his hand up to cup Misha’s cheek, letting the touch speak for him when words seemed too much. They kissed again, slow at first then more and more fiercely until Jensen broke free to beg Misha to move.

He never did return to the Archives. Not even to Washington. There was a house in rural Massachusetts, old and far enough away from the nearest town to let him feel a little bit like he used to back home in Texas with an endless blue sky. There was a new job, in Boston, technically, but it was waiting until he’d opened exhibits in every major city around the globe. And there was a new ring on the third finger of his left hand. His ring finger. A wedding ring. It was simple, plain gold. It hadn’t cost a treasure. But finding a treasure had put it there.

There was a matching one on Misha’s hand.


End file.
